#martianbugsbunny writes fic

[martianbugsbunny]

this is part anatomy reminders for myself and part trying to explain my headcanon

so basically the gills and the like mouth/nose airways are both connected to the lungs, there's like a sub-skull (?) or at least sub-skin connecting system from the gills to the windpipe and through that to the lungs, those two are basically complimentary systems that can operate independently of each other but use some of the same hardware

and then the really out of left field thing I decided Kit is gonna have is oxygen-absorbing skin. it's the backup system, it's separate from the other two, but in an emergency where neither the gills nor the rest of the respiratory system can provide oxygen the skin can absorb oxygen directly and give it to the cells (for a limited time)

[stardreamer28]

frankenwolf masterpost!

following @martianbugsbunny​ here’s my current series. Monster & Monster, all my frankenwolf fics as they’re added: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3430390 1st vid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKWpk-p-j4I 2nd vid: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHBSG7U3R-k more fics and vids for all my ships will come in the future, probably starting october. as with before I can’t list fanart ‘cause there’s so much but it will be under the frankenwolf and ruby x victor tag :) enjoy! I also wanted to give ya’ll some context so what comes out of my brain isn’t so confusing lol. I wasn’t planning on Trevor, the first frankenwolf baby, to be adopted. But he is and it somewhat works out. Yes he has the same name as the son in my Alias fic but I liked it. Different characters though as you’ll find out. This Trevor is legally blind. The adoption idea was an accident but came out of wanting some cute father/son moments. That whole process will most likely have it’s own oneshot. This Trevor is played by Johnny Kincaid if you want to have an actor for reference. The Trevor in my Alias fic was Steven R McQueen. Johnny is mostly blind, albino, and from what I understand can   see colors and vague shapes (from his mom’s posts it depends what it is). So that is my Trevor Zachary (Lucas) Frankenstein. As for the other two frankenwolf babies: Theodore is smart but more into music than science. He also spends alot of time with Ruby in the kitchen. (I’m guessing Jack Fisher if you wanna cast someone). He’s biologically theirs. Sophie is pure a mini Ruby including being their only wolf child. But also wants to be in the lab 24/7 like Victor. She’s biologically theirs. (played by  Ella Ramacieri) I was not planning on Victor & Ruby having more than one child because writing kids is hard! But for this fic I needed someone to play opposite Trevor. But because writing children is so hard Theodore and Sophie may or may not appear in future fics. I might play around with when Sophie was born but not a definite plan yet. I have no plans for those 2 so unless someone sends ideas Trevor may be the only kid in future Frankenwolf fics ‘cause I do have his planned out. Does that all make sense?

[martianbugsbunny]

That's How He Knows He's Yours (A Lokius Fic)

Okayyyy I would have sworn up and down that I had already posted this fic ??? but I did a bunch of different search attempts and I couldn't find it so I guess I didn't

The premise is basically Loki and Mobius are going to a party and Mobius is helping him with his hair, but Mobius has been studying up on the meanings of different Jotun hairstyles and accidentally-on-purpose picks the one that means "I'm taken." Ofc there's a bit of cultural headcanon involved. It's super fluffy w a little bit of flirtatiousness, so read on and enjoy!

The TVA was having a party.

That wasn’t really the important thing, but it was interesting. Mobius couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a party—but they needed to keep their spirits up after finding out that their entire lives were, in fact, lies, so a party it was. Every sector was having its own, because the TVA was too immense for all of the employees to have fit in a single room if they’d been threatened with death to do it.

Well, anyway, the important thing was that Mobius wasn’t going alone. He’d convinced Loki that it would be more fun to go together than to go separately, or not to go at all.

The other important thing was that Mobius had offered to braid Loki’s hair, which had grown considerably longer than it had been the first time they’d met, and that Loki had taken him up on it.

He’d spent hours studying both Jotun and Aesir braiding styles—not just the actual construction, but also the meaning behind them. In the end he’d picked the Jotun style that signaled “I’m taken” because it was beautiful, and because he was pretty sure Loki didn’t know enough about his own culture to know what it meant himself, so Mobius could convince himself it wasn’t that much of a presumption.

“I’m not so sure about this suit,” Loki said, sitting patiently as Mobius brushed his hair before plaiting it. “The gold stripes are a bit much, don’t you think?”

“What happened to the guy who used to strut around wearing gold armor and a cape?” Mobius teased, beginning the first braid. Left under the middle, right under the middle, he muttered under his breath.

“I’ve been wearing your boring TVA clothes for months,” Loki said, holding out one arm to watch the threads glitter. “The drab must’ve rubbed off on me.”

Mobius rolled his eyes. The truth was, he was outside his own comfort zone in a fancy suit. His didn’t have metallic pin-striping on it like Loki’s did (because it was a bit much) but it was a much sharper cut and a much more dashing style than he was used to wearing. He’d been just an analyst in a plain brown suit for centuries, and now here he was all dressed up like he thought he was Prince Charming or something.

He tried to focus more on the different strands of dark hair in his hands than on the way his fingertips brushed against Loki’s temples as he gathered new locks to add to the braids.

He failed.

As he began to pin the braids up using glittering golden hair pins, he tried to focus more on not stabbing Loki’s  scalp than on the brush of his hands against the nape of Loki’s neck.

He failed.

Loki was built like a prince, Mobius sometimes caught himself thinking. It didn’t matter if it was princedom of Asgard or of Jotunheim. There was an elegance in the set of his shoulders, in the movements of his hands as he wielded his magic, and a determination in the curve of his back and the way he stepped, that was utterly regal. Gold, like the simple rings he was wearing that night and the hair pins Mobius had found for him and the single slim chain around his neck, seemed to have been built into the cosmos for no reason other than to decorate Loki's trim form.

That was waxing poetic. Mobius didn’t do that often—only for Loki and Jet Skis. What could he say, they were both remarkable singularities in the universe.

He finished setting the last braid into place, nestled among several others like a crown across the top of Loki’s head. “All done, puss,” he said, patting Loki on the shoulder.

Loki’s head turned slightly to the side at the use of the nickname, and Mobius could just see a smile tugging at the corner of his mauve-tinted lips. “Do I dare look?” he asked.

“I didn’t mess it up that bad,” Mobius said. Loki chuckled and got up from the floor in front of Mobius’s couch to go check his reflection in the mirror on the other side of the room.

Mobius could see the reflected green eyes widening as Loki caught sight of himself. For some reason Mobius’s heart was in his throat.

“I didn’t know you knew how to do this,” Loki said.

“What, braids?” Mobius managed to speak past his racing pulse. “It’s not that hard.” It was, actually, quite difficult to his untrained hands, but learning it for Loki had made it seem easier.

“No. The Jotun style.”

That quick pulse stopped altogether. Mobius sat there, stock still, feeling very much like he was going to throw up if Loki didn’t break the sudden silence.

He turned from the mirror to look Mobius in the eyes properly. He was smiling, his eyes glittering beneath the faint liner he’d applied earlier that evening and a light dusting of shimmery grey eyeshadow. “Seems the pussycat has caught himself a guilty little mouse,” he said, his voice sultry and honey-smooth, dripping into Mobius’s soul. “You didn’t realize I knew what these braids meant.” It was a statement, not a question. There wasn’t a hint of doubt on his face.

“You caught me,” Mobius said. He was impressed with himself for being able to get any words out at all with Loki’s gaze focused on him like that.

“I’m taken, am I?”

Now Mobius found himself entirely unable to speak. What could he say, after all, other than we’ve been spending a lot of time together and you don’t mind when I call you ‘puss’ and I catch you staring at me sometimes in a way nobody ever has? It seemed stupid even in his brain. None of it meant he and Loki were…whatever he’d been subconsciously thinking they could be when he’d picked the style.

Loki walked back across the room, a new sway in his hips that Mobius was positive hadn’t been there before, and sat down on the couch to lean directly into Mobius’s personal space. For a long moment, far too long, far too breathless, he simply studied Mobius’s face, as though he could see everything single thought that had ever crossed his mind.

“We’ll see about that when we get back from the party,” he said finally, gaze flicking briefly down to Mobius’s lips. “Maybe you’re the one who’s going to be…taken.”

He crossed into that last bit of personal space and pressed their lips together, his touch surprisingly light, stunningly tender, as one arm came up to drape across Mobius’s shoulders and draw him even closer.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, puss.” Mobius finally found his tongue again and flirted back, laying a hand on Loki’s thigh. “You’re the one with the fancy hairstyle to prove it.”

As Loki laughed, Mobius captured his lips in another kiss, just as soft as before but oh-so-many leagues more passionate, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d been fool enough to pick a Jotun way to call Loki his.

[martianbugsbunny]

I could be writing a paper for my actual college class but instead I'm sitting here googling stuff like "kel dor without mask" and "do nautolans breathe oxygen" and "does kit fisto have a clone medic"

[stardreamer28]

1: umm I have a knack for finding scenes or lines to AU that most people don't. 2: thank them of course! 3: depends what it is. either ignore or everyone has their own opinion. 4: I don't have any saved right now but @martianbugsbunny & @monsterstaybroken always leave nice ones. 5: “Are you really…mm…sure are about this?” Victor asked, grunting as he felt her fingers. 7: (Fighting For More) He cringed as he heard it. “Aww Sammy, sick again?”" (Keep 'Em Close To Your Heart) “God, Chris, it hurts….” Those words would haunt him. (Good To Dance With You) They still had her camaro and Victor’s Jag, but they needed something bigger once they had kids. (Monster Games) Who knew a small town could be so loud at a soccer game? (Dancing Around The Subject) The first time he said it - well tried to - was when they were in that tiny, windowless, closet-sized room. 6: Gerhardt's an uncle. 8: I don't even know what I wrote last. 9: tea. 10: cookies. 11: OUAT. 12: Arrow or Silk Stalkings. 13: ehh they all kinda have pieces in them. 14: no idea. 15: no idea. 16: I don't even know how to list tropes, I'm sure someone else can look at my fics & tell you. 17: I don't even know how to list tropes, I'm sure someone else can look at my fics & tell you. 18: no idea. 19: hmm probably that Ruby always had some sense of Victor, even before they interacted in 1x15. that they were curious about each other in a deeper level outside of his reputation as a flirt. 20: just a medical thing mentioned in the show. 21: just wait for the inspiration to strike. 22: usually I'm up in the middle of the night so.... 23: bed. 24: probably "Layers". 25: "Close Enough To See The Cracks"? or that early Arrow one I wrote where Tommy and oc Scout broke up - I don't remember the name of it. 26: I don't write scary, but suspense would be "Delirium Takes Over Me". 27: any of the Alias ones? 28: idk "Bloodstained Sharp Pieces"? 29: any of 'em. 30: that doesn't make sense? 31: "Delirium Takes Over Me" so we can have frankenbro, frankenwolf, & frankenwolf babies! 32: they're all kinda built off each other. 33. no idea. 34: no idea. 35: most of the titles are Beth Crowley lyrics so I guess. 36: yes. 37: most of them are based off Beth Crowley songs so go look at any of those, they all fit OUAT or Alias. 38: most of them are based off Beth Crowley songs so go look at any of those, they all fit OUAT or Alias. 39:

40: uhhh no idea lol

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[martianbugsbunny]

current mood: pissed off that Plo Koon doesn't have lips

[martianbugsbunny]

Hour One (A Kalluzeb Fic)

*falling down the stairs* I did it! I finished my post-Zero Hour fic, it's so tasty to me <3 I'm not even gonna ramble about it I'm just gonna get right to the fic bc I love it!!! read on and enjoy!!!

When the ship was safely in hyperspace, Kanan quietly let Kallus into a room on the Ghost that was currently deserted. Judging by the half-made bunk beds against the wall, Kallus assumed it was living quarters, but he was too distracted by the growing pain in his shoulders and ribs to try and piece together whose room it was.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Kanan said. And then Kallus was alone again, with the forgiving, kind voice of the Jedi echoing in his brain. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be spoken to softly. He was lucky these people whom he’d hunted across the galaxy for years had even bothered to pick up his escape pod, rather than speeding away from the Imperial fleet and applying the rule of “serves him right.”

Something in him cracked. He began to sob, silently, terrified of what he had done in betraying the Empire, overwhelmed by a thousand different strident feelings he couldn’t even name. The heavy breaths hurt (every movement seemed to hurt, now that his adrenaline rush was wearing thin) and his head was pounding. Was the world really spinning, or was that just him?

At the first hiss of the door sliding open, Kallus dragged his sleeve hastily across his face to remove any tears or snot that might give away that he’d been crying—a bad decision, really, given his black eye, which stung at the rough contact.

It wasn’t Kanan who stepped into the room, slightly awkwardly and with bright green eyes that reflected back at Kallus those unnamable emotions.

It was Zeb.

Kallus took a step back, hands clenched at his sides. He knew his eyes were red and he could feel spots on his face where he had missed tears, and he hoped Zeb wouldn’t notice. He had no right to cry in front of this man, of all people.

Zeb stared at him for a moment, and Kallus could feel him mentally checking off all the things that were currently wrong on Kallus’s person. Hunched posture from his injured ribs; blotchy face; bloodstains on his uniform and dried blood on his lip.

“I brought you some clothes,” Zeb said. In the other hand he held a medkit, and Kallus realized with a sinking feeling that those supplies were for him. What a waste of resources that seemed. “They’re probably not your size, but they’re better than the Imperial things you’re wearing.”

Kallus took a breath before answering, surprised at how steady he was able to force his voice to be. “Thank you,” he said.

Then there was a horrible pause as Kallus realized he wouldn’t be able to remove his chest armor, much less his shirt, without help, and he could see the exact same knowledge dawning on Zeb’s face. “Karabast,” he said. “You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you.”

Kallus shook his head after only a brief moment of thought. He didn’t have the strength to punish himself any further. Whether or not he was worthy of Zeb’s help would have to wait until he was healed. “If you don’t mind,” he said, taking another shaky breath as he once again met Zeb’s gaze.

He didn’t look angry. He almost seemed…proud? That wasn’t right. Kallus was seeing things; his brain had been shaken up by his escape and he was imagining things that weren’t there. “I don’t,” Zeb said. He crossed the room and set the clothes down on the lower bunk. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the empty space next to them.

Kallus did as he was told, relieved to be off his feet. The leg he’d injured on Bahryn had been hurting horribly since his fight with Thrawn, particularly his knee. He might need to consider getting a brace, he realized, if he wanted to keep fighting—which he did.

Zeb unclasped the sides of Kallus’s ISB-issued armor, dumping it on the floor. “Sabine’ll get a kick out of painting that,” Zeb said. “You can wear our colors instead of Imperial ones.” “Give it to somebody else,” Kallus said. “I don’t want it.” Zeb gave him another strange look that he couldn’t parse. “Whatever you say.” He began to work at the clasps of Kallus’s uniform shirt. They definitely wasn't built for his large, clawed fingers. “So…you’re a Rebel now,” he said. “Still think you made the right decision?”

There weren’t words to describe how firmly Kallus was convinced of it. He was terrified, staring into the face of the unknown, but he knew he’d done the right thing—he just wasn’t sure how to live with the consequences. How to build a new life for himself out of the ruins of his old one…which had been built on the ruins of so many other people’s lives.

So Kallus simply nodded, trying to keep himself from spilling any more tears. The thing that made that impossible was the gentle way Zeb worked the unclasped shirt from his torso, pulling off one sleeve and then the other, grumbling angrily in that deep, rumbling voice when he saw the bruises on Kallus’s side.

“I apologize,” Kallus said immediately, his voice stiff and cracked like old, uncared-for leather. “This isn’t fair.” Zeb helped him get his arms into the new shirt he’d brought, leaving the clasps undone; the medics would only have to undo them again later to treat his injuries properly. Then he draped a quilted jacket across Kallus’s shoulders.

“You just uprooted your entire life, Kallus,” Zeb said, sighing and adjusting a non-existent crease in the jacket. “I would think it was weird if you didn’t cry.”

“Not in front of you. You shouldn’t comfort me.” Kallus moved backwards, further into the bunk, away from Zeb’s touch. He didn’t deserve empathy and he didn’t want pity. “This shouldn’t be your problem.”

Zeb got up from the floor where he’d been kneeling and sat on the edge of the bunk, staring at the opposite wall instead of at Kallus. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “Maybe I should say it’s none of my business. Maybe I should leave you to deal with it alone. But when you worked with me on that ice moon, and saved my friends from the Empire, and fed us all that intel as Fulcrum, I think you kind of made yourself my business.” He turned back towards Kallus, his face serious, his eyes soft. “Now let me check your other injuries.”

Kallus complied, shifting closer to Zeb. Even if it didn’t sit right with him, he didn’t think he could refuse Zeb anything. He would do whatever he was asked, whatever he was told—even allow Zeb to take on some of his burden—if it would make a fraction of a difference. If it would help him so much as an inch towards making amends.

With his broad hands carefully gentle, Zeb put a few stitches in Kallus’s broken lower lip. Kallus wondered where Zeb had learned those skills; if it was gained during his time in the Honor Guard of Lasan or in the Rebellion. For a moment, he was lost in wondering, searching Zeb’s face while he was intent on his task as though he could find an answer there. He only realized Zeb had paused and asked him a question when Zeb tilted his head to the side, staring at Kallus for an answer of his own.

“Could you repeat that?”

Zeb rolled his eyes. “I said, can you see alright? That black eye doesn’t look too good.”

His eyes were dry now, but there was still a blur in the left side of his vision. “Actually, I can’t,” he said, swallowing hard. “Everything to the left is hazy.”

“It'll probably need a while to heal,” Zeb said. “If it doesn’t, we’ll get you fitted with some visual aids.” He dabbed something cold and clear on the bruised skin. “There’s nothing more I can do until we land, but you should be fine.”

The pain in his side begged to argue, and he was pretty sure that something in there was broken, but Kallus nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For everything."

How could he put that everything into words? Thank you for not killing me on Bahryn, thank you for telling me to look for the answers, thank you for believing me when I was Fulcrum, thank you for picking me up just now, thank you for tending my wounds.

He didn’t need to. The way Zeb was looking at him, he already knew.

“We have enough people on board to handle things,” Zeb said, his voice equally low. “I can stick around here for a while if you want the company.”

Kallus felt a smile tugging at the stitches on his lip. More everything to be grateful for. “Alright.”

They sat there together on the bunk for a while in silence. It was a comfortable silence, somehow, and Kallus finally began to relax, not breathing easily past the injuries to his ribs but certainly breathing more easily than before.

“You were limping,” Zeb said, breaking the quiet. “When you came on board you were limping.”

“Once you’re wounded, that body part becomes a target. It’s not so bad, now that my weight’s been off it.” Zeb leaned back against the wall. “That’s good.” He extended one arm to Kallus. “Come on, Kal. We’ve got time before we land anywhere, you can rest.”

There was a moment of hesitation, of doubt, and then Kallus allowed himself to settle next to Zeb, with a strong purple arm around his shoulders. As he started drifting off, safe for the first time in months and knowing his injuries would be cared for, Kallus thought he felt Zeb’s fingers gently rubbing across his arm, and there was a little pit of warmth in his chest that kept the cold of pain and guilt out.

[martianbugsbunny]

my PloKit hurt/comfort fic has led to the creation of a clone medic OC in Kit's division, his name is Stronghold and he's buff af

[martianbugsbunny]

doing my kalluzeb rite of passage and working on a post-zero hour fic

[martianbugsbunny]

@the-lonely-human I'm working on that PloKit fic and I thought since it's a request I would drop a little snippet whilst you wait :)

is it really a hurt/comfort if there's not a Bridal Carry Moment lmao

[martianbugsbunny]

my PloKit fic is getting WILDLY out of hand. im marking up an image of Kit in order to explain my Nautolan anatomy headcanon that I've invented ENTIRELY for this fic. somebody help me

[martianbugsbunny]

me omw to BS the hell out of Nautolan biology for my fic because I cannnnnnn

[martianbugsbunny]

He Waits By The Riverside (A Bad Batch Fic)

*approaches in a swan paddleboat* so I cried myself to sleep last night about the fact that Tech is actually dead, hence the need for a boat. I'm living in a lake of my own tears at this point. I didn't cry for him properly when he died because I had hope that he wasn't really dead after all and now it's hitting so hard, especially because he's the only one who didn't get to grow old. My chest gets tight when I think about how horribly unfair that seems. So I wrote a fic to put that sadness somewhere, inspired by He Waits, By The Riverside from Renegade Nell. I tried my hardest to make the fic feel the same way the song does (absolutely heartbreaking in a way that holds your hand) and honestly I think I did a pretty good job. So read on and enjoy (?)

Tech opened his eyes. His goggles were gone—his sight was acceptable without them, but he couldn’t see the more precise details of the landscape surrounding him. One was thing was certain, though: it wasn’t what he had been expecting when he plummeted, heart stopped, chest tight, through the clouds.

“Welcome, beloved,” a voice said. Not the gravelly voice of his sergeant, or Wrecker’s warm one, or Omega’s enthusiastic chirp, or Echo’s soft laugh—not even Crosshair’s pinched tone. It was the sort of voice that seemed like the wind, drifting out in one instant and fading away in the next, with no single pitch or volume but constantly shifting, shifting, shifting like the fog Tech had fallen through. Wind itself, however, was absent from the surroundings, not even a breath of it stirring.

Tech looked around, sitting up, searching for the voice’s owner. There was a pounding in his ears, either his heart or a far-off drum; he couldn’t decipher which, or even which made more sense in his current context.

The first thing he noticed properly was, at his feet, a mass of water that was not quite a river. It was long and gently curving into the distance like a river, and he estimated it was about five feet wide, but it didn’t flow. It was utterly still, just as the air was. It was unnatural, and yet somehow, it didn’t fill him with the creeping dread that perhaps it should have.

“You’ve come later than I expected,” the voice said. “Many of your kind joined me much sooner.”

Tears were blurring Tech's vision a little more, although he didn’t know why. A bird with a lilting song—one he could identify after a moment as a Yavin nightingale—was singing in the distance. Fish glittered vaguely in the river that didn’t flow past his feet, sunlight pouring down around them like rain.

That wasn’t right. The sunlight shouldn’t reach down here.

“Sooner than I hoped.”

The bird continued to sing, sweetly, brightly.

There were no bulrushes growing on the not-river banks, allowing Tech an unobstructed view of the creatures thrashing in the reflective water, scales aglow in the light that shouldn't have cut through the clouds. He couldn't bring himself to look up and see if there actually were any now.

“Ah, well.”

The sweet song was becoming a monotonous drone as it went endlessly, unhesitatingly, on. The fish in their sparkling glory were flames in Tech’s slightly unclear vision, kicking up sand from the bottom of the riverbed that drifted around them as the fog had about him. The reed grasses beneath him rustled as he got to his feet and turned his face to the cloudless grey sky.

He knew why he was crying.

A creature stood on the opposite bank, sheathed in a long white robe, bare-footed, with its face invisible except for a peculiarly unreadable grin made of white teeth and red lips. “Join me, love,” it said.

He knew why he was crying.

For a moment, there was a phantom pain across his body, the immense impact of sharp stones after a long fall. Another tear slipped down his bare face, and he knew he had succeeded. They were all safe: Hunter with his wide heart, Wrecker and his brilliant smile, Omega with her endless hope, Echo for his new purpose, maybe even Crosshair despite his mercurial loyalties.

He knew why he was crying.

“Do I have to?” he asked, despite already knowing the answer. This one time, he wished logic would fail to hold, and he could be released to rejoin the family he had made safe. To enjoy the fruits of his final and hardest labor.

“All that is loved becomes mine eventually,” it said. “You have been loved.”

Tech sobbed.

As the creature compelled him on, softly playing a military tune on an ebony fiddle and urging with its strange and sighing voice, Tech stepped into the river and crossed over to the other side.

….

In the still water—there were no fish to be seen from this angle—he could see them, by turns, running from the Empire, running towards the Empire, doing the best they could to keep their broken family from rifting any further, trying to mend it as best they could. It ached to watch, knowing they could never be truly whole again now that he was gone. Knowing that they were becoming more whole by the day, however, as Omega brought Crosshair back to them, and that he had sacrificed not only his life, but also his chance to be part of a reunited family.

Their lives continued to be dangerous, and every so often he would glance across the water, afraid he would see Hunter or Wrecker there and that the family on his side of the river would become more whole while that on the other side became more fractured and grief-stricken. He had a world without end. It hurt, but he would rather wait until the others were all old to hold them again. He didn’t want them to die young like he did, even if it meant sitting alone beside the water for another hundred years.

So Tech sat there, on the other side, and sang, slightly off-key, as though he could warn them, as though they could hear him, as though he could put off their final reunion for longer if only he was as determined as the nightingale that he could no longer hear.

“He waits by the riverside, and he waits by the road; he’ll play you his drum and the fiddle he’ll bow. So caution yourself—beware of his tongue.

“Cause all that is loved….”

Can crumble to none.

[martianbugsbunny]

what was supposed to be a one-shot has become a fic of at least three chapters, muse have mercy on me

[martianbugsbunny]

heyyyy crosshunters wanna crumb from a WIP?

[martianbugsbunny]

love that point in writing a spicy fic where I have the beginning and the end but none of the actual spicy content